


The Account

by Pookaseraph



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Falling Hurts, Gen, M/M, Raphael Theory, So Does Sauntering Downward Really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pookaseraph/pseuds/Pookaseraph
Summary: Heaven forgot to cancel the Corporate AmEx. A Crowley is/was Raphael fic.





	The Account

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the change in fandom anyone who subs me XD.

Despite the occasional appearance of it, Heaven did not, in general terms, micromanage. Gabriel himself was not a micromanager, except for now, in the Post-Not-Endtimes. The paperwork, it had taken the full ten years just to get the Celestial paperwork in order and it was going to take at least ten times that to get it all undone again.

Gabriel didn’t question Her, but there was certainly the occasional surprise that transcended the pleasant.

A knock came on the ethereal surface that would have been a office door if Heaven had offices, or doors, which they did not.

“Um, Sir?” the timid looking angel straightened its tie and then flared its hands down its dress skirt. “I know you said you were not to be disturbed, but that is in contradiction with the order to always disturb you if...”

Gabriel did not sigh, he just looked up, violet eyes piercing into the angel. “What?”

“Just there’s been activity.”

“Heaven is nothing _but_ activity right now.”

“On The Account.”

Gabriel did not let his surprise show on his face. The Account? Now?

He held out his hand and the nervous angel handed over the thing that was not paper. He plucked it with a violence he usually only showed for demons, and it ruffled like a wing as he righted it and looked at the printout. (The printout was, for the record, in the most holy of angelic script)

Miracle performed 4:03 PM GMT, Tadfield Airbase, Tadfield, Oxfordshire: relativistic gravitational field produced via Bentley tire iron providing 1 minute 15 seconds of unaccounted time, also including Adam Young, Prince of Lies, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, etc. and Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate.

Gabriel thought he would have fucking noticed another angel somewhere near Tadfield when he’d been there.

“You!”

The angel who had delivered the note returned in a blink, further nerves obvious. “Yes, Sir?”

“I want every second of the Earth Observational Files from this minute.”

“There’s a huge line, Sir, it will take hours without...”

Gabriel set his hand on the not paper before him, and under it formed the words that this errand was of utmost importance and that the Angel... “Name?”

“Saldriel.”

Saldriel could hop the line, Celestial Order be damned, and it seemed it was lately.

His Name rent a furrow across the paper tinged with Celestial light and a flick sent it back to the waiting hands of Saldriel.

“Now.”

It might help to understand what, exactly, The Account was and why it was of the utmost concern to someone who might seem above concern, such as an entity like Gabriel.

Imagine, for a moment, that you had an employee, someone you considered a bother, someone who was quite literally your brother: excellent worker, quite literally hung the moon, as it were. And then, after The War (the first one), absolute radio silence. At first you might think: sick day? not that angels can get sick, but I’m certain you catch the thrust of it, and then after that: what if something happened to them? and then still nothing.

So you assume the worst and life as a Celestial Being moves on. Man's there, getting tempted, getting kicked out of the Garden, She is in one of her moods, Flood coming and so forth, still nothing.

And then years later: blindness cured, demons cast out and bound, real heavy lifting. Now, you have to understand, this isn't using your corporate AmEx for a sandwich at Subway, this is using your corporate AmEx at a lavish resort with unending room service and then politely tipping all service individuals and disappearing into a puff of smoke.

This set off Flags in Heaven. The rumor went around the office with the speed of a wave of light quite certain it would break the universal constant _c_ this time: Raphael, not dead and still on the Books, but nowhere to be found. An investigation was carried out, descriptions taken, and it was by all accounts most certainly the Archangel Raphael down to the flaming red hair and golden eyes.

It didn't happen frequently: a healing there, a moderate miracle there, demon cast out there, an apparition there, and every time Heaven - usually in the form of religious observers hoping to document the appearance of such a venerated Archangel - confirmed that in every way: the Archangel Raphael had appeared, healed, and moved on.

No order came down to cancel The Account that provided that link to Her and Her holiness, and so it drifted into obscurity: the corporate AmEx bill that came due every once in a great while and heralded a religious experience of profound significance.

Gabriel had tried, over the years, to trace the origin of The Account himself, but his abilities to sense his Brother were limited, it seemed, and after a great while there was little he could do but wait for the next appearance.

"What is a Bentley tire iron?" he muttered to himself. The more pertinent question was: and how did that create a fluctuation in space-time capable of pausing Her unerring clock for over a minute, but Gabriel never had much of an imagination either.

"Um, Sir?" Saldriel again.

He held out his hand, the pictures were handed over, and flick of the wrist said all he needed to say from there: go away.

Gabriel examined the first in the stack: much as he had remembered upon leaving: three children, one Antichrist, one witch, two witchfinders, one psychic, one traitor angel, one traitor demon. The ground was quite obviously shaking, Aziraphale holding that flaming sword... Gabriel made a mental note to Get It Back... as soon as they figured out how the angel had survived Hellfire. Crowley on the ground looking up at him.

Words must have been said, he assumed, although what was beyond the ken of the basic Observational Files. The Demon stood, hands flung into the air, and then... he and Aziraphale stood holding the Antichrist's hands, one each.

He flipped back: standing, hands in the air, no glasses; he flipped forward: standing, hand in the Antichrist's, glasses.This was not some glitch, at least not according to the timestamps (not that Heaven had glitches, ever), just one second they were in one configuration, the next another. Everyone else had not moved in such a manner.

Now, Gabriel might not possess much in the way of imagination, but he did at least have some deductive reasoning: a Miracle had occurred, that Miracle consisted of The Antichrist, Aziraphale, and Raphael, and yet instead he held in his hand a picture of The Antichrist, Aziraphale, and Crowley apparently the one who had performed the Heavenly Entreaty.

"That's impossible," he told himself.

And yet... Michael had said that Crowley had submerged himself in holy water without so much as a sizzle. The problem of Aziraphale still went unsolved, but if it was true that the demon Crowley was, in fact, the Archangel Raphael once... not just _once_ but _now_ in some manner.

Gabriel attempted to look at the demon with an objective eye. One would think that would be easy for an angel, but his traditional revulsion to the Fallen made that a difficult prospect in most ways.

Red hair: yes; golden eyes: not particularly, but they did have enough yellow that a fallible human might be mistaken; Angelic: well, he had survived holy water... And while there was certainly an Understanding that Aziraphale would be left alone, there was technically not one concerning the demon Crowley, and there most certainly wasn't one concerning Raphael.

He picked up The Phone. It was red, he had no idea why it was red, just that it had been changed sometime in the fifties and never changed back. Three rings and an inordinately annoying hold music later he was connected.

"Beelzabub, I need the demon's address."

"I wouldn't...," she said, but after a moment she gave it to him.

"I'm not going to smite him," Gabriel promised, not to assuage her concern, of course, not that she would be concerned, just because... well, he'd hate to cause her more trouble than was already certain to be stacking up Down There. "How's... you know?"

An answer that seemed to be a roar of flies against rotted meat came through the headset.

"Yeah, pretty much," he answered. "I can't say I understand the appeal but I am told intoxication is quite therapeutic in these situations."

"Do you think he'sss paying uss after that performanzzz?"

Fair point. "My treat. Ten?"

An agreeable buzz answered and he hung up.

A more culturally astute being might have wondered if they made Hallmark cards for: hey, Brother, I know I haven't seen you for six thousand years and you seem to be Fallen, how's that working out? Gabriel was not, however, culturally astute, so he just buttoned his jacket and disappeared.

*

Crowley was exhausted with the sort of bone-weary exhaustion that only came when you had approximately six times the number of bones as an average human. Saturday had taken a lot out of him, emotionally of course, but he was always beyond exhaustion whenever he did those Big Miracles. No other demons had ever mentioned such an occurrence, but it wasn't as though he was in the habit of socializing with other demons.

Sunday... well that had been an entirely different sort of exhausting. Hellfire in Heaven, and seeing his Brothers and Sisters again without tipping any sort of hand beyond the lack of familiarity a Principality might have had with them.

He also couldn't help but feel a slight offense at _Sandalphon_ replacing him. Sandalphon! The guy Crowley had had to dodge while he was smiting the Hell out of Sodom and Gamorrah quite literally. Even he hadn't much liked the places but, really? Crowley had always been a healer, not a smiter.

Maybe that was the problem, too close to a 'proper' Miracle. It seemed those took the most out of him. He never quite could admit to himself that he was doing Good, even if he sometimes was, and even though he was certain Asmodeus would come for him for that little Egyptian rumble someday he never did... 

Still, he was exhausted, and even more exhausted after a Hellfire bath and That conversational with Aziraphale, the one where he had finally admitted that while he most certainly couldn't feel that all-encompassing love that Aziraphale felt for all Creation he certainly had enough personal love for the angel in a human sort of way. 

Really he'd been pretty drunk and after so long keeping it to himself it really was destined to come out in a fit of some sort of post-apocalyptic angst.

Aziraphale had asked for time, and if there was one thing the Demon was always ready and willing to give his Angel it was time. That was likely a source of exhaustion too, Aziraphale not talking to him at the moment, at least for the last day. In human terms that was negligible, in occult terms it was negligible, but Crowley worried.

Aziraphale would Forgive him even if he couldn't reciprocate, Crowley knew that somewhere in what was probably supposed to be the region of his heart.

The firm knock on his door startled him out of his introspection and he checked the time to make sure it had really been... only twenty hours? Really? Not that he wasn't glad to see the Angel again so soon but...

"Look, Angel I told you you could just come..." 

Crowley swallowed a lump in his throat, the sort you'd normally need to unhinge your jaw for.

"In?"

"Of course," the Archangel Fucking Gabriel walked into his flat with the purpose of someone who was oblivious to the invasion of personal space and _why the Heavens was he here_. Crowley had figured they'd have at least a decade, not _two days_.

"So... to what do I owe the displeasure?" he asked, wondering if he could call Aziraphale and slip into the phone lines if he moved fast enough.

"I just had to see for myself."

See? Crowley backed away, and Gabriel moved forward, after a brief dance of more steps backward Crowley finally stood his ground. 

"Do you remember me?" he asked, his voice... soft? Gabriel wasn't _soft_.

"Yeah, you know, Saturday, stopping the end of the world, that sort of thing?"

"Before that," a now testy voice continued. That was more comfortable, Crowley relaxed just a fraction even if he shouldn't have.

"Tinder?" he suggested, not that he expected Gabriel even knew what that was, but...

"Raph--"

"Don't." And despite the fact that a demon in Extra Bad Grace really had no control over an Archangel in any manner, Gabriel didn't finish the name. "My name is Crowley."

The Archangel didn't listen. "I thought so. It's been... millennia."

"Well, you know, places to go, people to tempt. Wait..." Crowley was beyond confused. "How did you know? How long have you known?!"

"An hour or so," Gabriel answers. "That little stunt you pulled with the... ah... tire iron."

"It was pretty neat, yeah?" Crowley finally remembered who he was, where he was, and who he was with. "Wait. No, not neat, what? How did that tell you anything? And it's been days!"

"You don't know?" Gabriel asked. 

Crowley could have snarled at the infuriating conversation, and instead he pulled his glasses away from his eyes and gave Gabriel a dead stare. That seemed to put Gabriel on his toes a bit, the rest of him was angelic enough if you didn't look around the edges, but that gave Crowley some breathing room.

"Ra-- Crowley," Gabriel continued. "Your Account, it's... well it's still open."

"My Account, I don't have a bloody Account. I'm a demon, one of Her Fallen."

"She is the one who allowed you to stop time."

Crowley opened his mouth, not unlike a fish, and then closed it again. There was no way. But really what he'd done in Tadfield shouldn't have been particularly obvious unless the notification went Upstairs, not Downstairs, and the immediate linking to Raphael of all angels, who Crowley knew hadn't spoke to any of the Celestial Host... well other than a wickedly wholesome Principality... in thousands of years.

"So..." Gabriel spread his hands. "Ineffable Plan? Greater Good? I don't have to like it, but..."

"Well, it's been nice chatting, but what do you say you... pop off now. Please," Crowley did not much care for begging, but he was definitely preparing to. "Wait, don't... don't tell Aziraphale."

"I can accept that request," Gabriel answered, and Crowley let out a breath that he had somehow been holding for minutes. "Well, I'll be heading off, I just... I had to see you with my own eyes."

"We done here?" Crowley asked, putting his glasses back on and feeling immensely better for having done so.

"We're done." Gabriel turned and walked away, and that, more than anything, said everything that Crowley needed to know. Gabriel was a warrior, he was God's Strength, he didn't turn his back on a demon. It hurt, actually, to see his once Brother respect him more than his Angel, or at least who Gabriel had thought was his Angel. He looked back, just at the door. "Farewell."

And then he turned back away.

"Gabe."

Gabriel froze, his back tensed, and when he looked back again he looked as though Crowley had struck him, pained. 

"Could you...? Just once. My name is Crowley, but..."

The pained expression faded, at least, not that Crowley was supposed to feel particularly guilty about hurting an angel, especially not one who'd hurt Aziraphale, but there were some bonds that Crowley had thought broken forever that were apparently still holding on by a single sinewy thread.

"Farewell, Raphael."

The name cut just as much as he thought it would, deep into him in a way that tore and rent at his chest. It was no Fall, but it did hurt. He fell to his knees despite a great deal of effort not to, and he was gratified to see that Gabriel didn't look back again, just left, shutting the door, and likely headed back Upstairs and Crowley hoped he would never have to see him again.

Alone, finally. He was alone. Most people don't stop to consider it, and it's often said in a way that doesn't quite bring up the right amount of gravity: Hell is the absence of God. Crowley had felt that absence acutely for thousands of years, and although he was hardly one to compare notes, he imagined that his pain was possibly even more intense than most Fallen, owing to the simple fact that while God and Her Grace were for all of her Angels, there had always been an extremely special place in Her Heart for her Archangels.

He still remembered a lazy flick of a barely-born wrist traveling across the Heavens and leaving millions of stars in its wake and Her voice, somewhere behind him but always suffused within him: 

_'You're quite good at that. Well, I'll leave you to it. Remember all of my Creation is for those who are yet to come.'_

_'I will, Lord.'_

Somehow he wondered if all of the other angels had somehow forgotten that along the way.

Another knock on the door, more furtive, and Crowley did growl this time, growl and wipe away the beginnings of tears from his eyes and stomped to the door flung it open: "Why the Heavens are you--?"

"Oh." Aziraphale stood there, looking pale and upset. "I just thought..."

"Angel, I'm sorry. I'm..." He chuckled to himself. "Having a moment."

"Yes, I can see. Are you quite alright, My Dear?"

"I will be, Angel. We've got eternity to look forward to, after all."

"Yes, well. About that."

Crowley felt his throat constrict, surely Aziraphale hadn't come here just to rip his heart out again.

Far from it, however, the Angel pressed a soft kiss just at the corner of his mouth and Crowley felt his knees go weak just from the sheer relief. "I'm exhausted, Angel. Can I tempt you to a snuggle on the couch?"

"Anything," Aziraphale answered, and he looped one arm around Crowley's waist and they walked into Crowley's apartment, his Angel leading him to comfort and the future.


End file.
